she is such a tiny bud, raw
with winter’s scrubbed potential, born to high winds
to parents of dune thistle
grandparents of red baneberry
lost in a rough country of ancestry
not recognizing oak from aspen
from elder
i want to bring her baskets of our fruit
crops of blackberries or little wild strawberries just plump enough
to crush between teeth, to burst open and stain the lips
i want them tart with her lineage,
of who she was grown to be
of how she was rooted a thousand years ago
and i am no master gardener
unskilled at pruning or coaxing bud to blossom,
i can’t tell sly weed from straining sapling
except for this one
glorious shoot
so go ahead, dance, little one
let your bare toes take root everywhere they will,
let the wind shake loose your laughter
like seeds
and let it
settle, fatten, sprout,
and seek new sun
this is no longer
my harvest
© 2019 R.B. Simon
First appeared in May 2020 Issue of Literary Mama; Winner of the Arts & Literary Laboratory ALL Favorites Prize 2021.
